


hues

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: F/M, Kagune, Light Angst, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6305704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A storm deafens all her plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesickwife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesickwife/gifts).



> a by-now-quite-late present for thesickwife. :’);;
> 
> hope you have a good day ahead!

“I have news,” Nishiki says suddenly, and then he stops.

This, more than anything else, clues her in to what the news is about.

Or rather — _who_ it’s about.

Touka continues wiping the counter.

“I know,” she says.

Nishiki turns, both to lean against the counter and to hide his face from the day’s last lingering customers.

“You _know_?” His tone is disbelieving.

Well, so what.

“I don’t get all my news from you, you know,” Touka tells him. She makes a joke out of it; she rolls her eyes, tosses her head, adjusts the collar of her high-collared blouse. Nishiki frowns.

“What? It’s easy enough to get information on my own.” She adjusts her collar again. When Nishiki keeps staring, Touka sighs and gestures broadly at :re’s seating area with her order pad.

:::

She isn’t lying, per se. It’s true that whispers of the Black Reaper permeate :re when humans are out of earshot. Touka tries to stifle it with kind words and then impatient glares, but there’s nothing that can be done about it.

Everyone wants news.

_“He’s back.”_

Touka’s lips purse.

_“He’s back.”_

_“He’s back, and he’s even worse.”_

It’s…not like she doesn’t understand the feeling. She paces, hiding her face from Nishiki and Nii-san, polishing and re-polishing cups and counters until she can see her own feeble smile.

 _Keep to the plan,_ she chants. _Keep to the plan._

When she closes the doors on another day without his silhouette, she sits down, and it’s all she can hear.

_Keep to the plan._

Then, one night, there’s a storm.

:::

The rain rattles down the eaves; the windows quake in their panes. Touka is heading back to the kitchen when the lights flicker off on their own, and don’t turn back on again. For a moment, her heart seizes, and she crams the words into her mouth, savors them with the same desperation that someone might a cigarette.

“Keep to the plan.”

She lets it fill her lungs. She waits for her cravings to subside, and when they don’t, she repeats it — just as there’s a distant rumble.

It deafens. All she can hear then is the quake in her chest.

When lightning limns the cafe next, Touka, and her coat, are gone.

:::

It’s not hard to find him, anymore. All she needs to do is walk, quickly and quietly, in the direction ghouls are running from. Once she hears the skitter and static of Dove communicators, she scales the buildings nearby, and tugs down her mask.

Both Nii-san and Nishiki would be pissed at her, probably. Some part of her, to be honest, is pissed at herself too. This is stupid.

And still, here she goes. Gripping drenched brick. Setting her soles to paved rooftop. Adjusting and peering down through her mask’s eyes. She scans the plaza below, spotting two Doves easily, but not the one she’s looking for.

_“Associate Special Class Sasaki…”_

It’s the buzz of a communicator. Touka freezes.

_“…where are you?”_

“Investigating,” he replies.

Thunder roars — maybe — though all she hears is her own blood, roaring in her ears. Slowly, Touka makes herself turn, and in the dimness she can only just make out a dark silhouette.

_“Associate Special Class Sasaki, please —”_

His hand moves, and the communicator static cuts off mid-sentence.

:::

In some ways, the years passed with a dream-like quality, an especially hazy quality. Half of her was living it, going through all the motions of living, and the other half was watching from a high place, perched. Observing it the same way that someone might observe a character in a book. Skimming and turning the pages of every day, thinking things like, _Ah, that’s hard, it must be painful to wait for this long and this helplessly,_ but from enough distance that words don’t cut. She tried so hard to properly merge life between her different worlds, only to cleave herself in two.

Touka, who smiles as she serves coffee; and Touka, who can’t see anything but the horizon of the empty street.

Touka, who counts inventory; and Touka, who stares at the ceiling all night.

Touka, who waits tables; and Touka, who waits.

No, she thinks. Stupid. Dramatic. She’s been reading too many books.

In the end, there’s only one of her. Only one Touka needed to make a huge mistake.

His suitcase opens, and Touka’s back bursts alight.

:::

It’s a short fight.

She thinks, at first, that it’s the wind that’s whistling — but then it says something solid, whispers something to her that sounds so much like _Kill,_ and when her gaze flicks she sees an impossible grin. Her heart drops, with sheer shock and terror, it plummets straight into her stomach and splashes acid up all her nerves, and in that instant the rinkaku seems to chuckle.

It’s a short fight. Those tendrils deflect and swallow up every kick and crystal. Her attempts to escape are curbed by cackling vines. Her back presses against the outside of a stairwell. All too soon she is only smoke, and he is still a bladed shadow, stepping closer and closer.

:::

In some ways, what happens next passes with a dream-like quality, an especially hazy quality. Half of her is living it, the real situation of it, a ghoul and a Dove and a hopeless situation. The other half, from a place deep in her chest, cries for more. Aching in the same way someone might when skimming desperately, searching for _And they lived happily ever after,_ even though that line would never work outside a fairytale.

_It’s hard. It’s been so painful to wait for this long, and this helplessly._

:::

If she had the pen…that is, if it was really her, that had control of more than just a simple “plan”…she knows how she’d want it to go.

:::

He raises his quinque, and Touka’s heart bursts, even before he’s buried it.

“Wait,” she gasps, _“wait,”_ and the blade hesitates. With a hand nearly numb with fear and cold, Touka tips her mask away.

His expression, in the dimness, doesn’t seem to change. But the tangles weaving through the air around her start to whisper amongst themselves.

_“Ra —”_

_“— bbit.”_

_“R.”_

_“Ra —”_

_“— bbit.”_

_“E.”_

_“Tou —”_

_“– ka-chan.”_

“Yeah,” Touka says quickly. “Yeah. That’s me.”

These new — things of his are kind of freaky but they, at least, are talkative. She dares a step forward and they lunge toward her and then wince away, mouths shutting and swallowing, and she takes it as a good sign. Her mouth opens.

“Do you remember?”

His expression tightens; he lifts his hand, adjusts his rain-spattered glasses but takes too long to do it, like he is trying to cover his face. Above her, mouths choke out, _“Tou — ka-chan.”_

“Yeah,” Touka says encouragingly, and she takes another step. Kaneki’s shoulders stoop; he drops the quinque and his other hand rises to his face, this one gloved with scarlet. He is so close now, he is within reach, she can _touch_ him, she can collect him into her arms, for a moment she feels already the weight of him against her chest and she raises her hand and —

 _Whumpf._ His rinkaku plunge, curl up against her shoulders and shove her against the wall again. Touka gasps, not from pain but from — surprise. She starts toward him again, but the rinkaku pin her, tight, preventing her from getting close, even as his eyes meet hers glassily from between his fingers, as if he can barely see her.

 _“Kaneki,”_ Touka cries finally, _“please,”_ and in her voice are a dozen other words, _I missed you, I waited, come back, come back, come back, come back,_ and her plea is echoed then by another ragged _“Touka-chan,”_ so close that she feels the heat of an exhale, and then the — softness of — a tongue against her throat.

Touka gasps, not from pain but from — something else. She tries to look down but the rinkaku is still nuzzling up against her, rolling its warm weight up her throat and behind her ear, lapping at the shell of it — and now there’s another rinkaku at the other side of her throat, pressing, curling its tongue around the sensitive area beneath her chin. Touka gasps again.

_I missed you, I waited, come back, come back, come, come —_

Her hands raise. Her fingers grip, not to remove, but to reel. Her fingers dig just a little, her hands stroke, and the rinkaku sigh, and their quivers reverberate all the way to Kaneki’s stooped shoulders.

_“Touka-chan. Touka-chan. Touka-chaan.”_

More mouths are sprouting just to exhale her name. One trembles near enough to venture a kiss on her cheek, and Touka turns to it and kisses it back, lightly at first, and then with a mouth parted to admit just the tip of her tongue against it.

Kaneki’s other mouth tastes both like stone and skin but this tiny contact is enough to send another wave through the vines around her, jarring them apart and then knotting them all closer, closer, closer. They heave up against her, clutching, so desperately that Touka is pushed up against the wall on her toes. When they tide away and let her down, her weight rests down on mouths nuzzling against her palms, mouths murmuring up beneath her coat and clothing, mouths suckling up her stomach and twisting up and between her thighs.

She was already drenched with rain but now Kaneki is laving every centimeter of skin and she is feeling herself getting even wetter. A moan escapes her and rinkaku bask into the arch of her back, crawl eagerly into the space she allows between her legs. Her clothing is writhing, with too many occupants — a seam or something pops, somewhere — a mouth dips into the cup of her bra and she struggles to undo it, to make space, and is interrupted by another pair of hands, gloved. Touka looks up with astonishment, and pleasure, and hunger, and when the bra snaps loose Touka takes Kaneki’s hands in hers, fingers lacing, and feels the mouths against her sigh as she squeezes. Water-logged glasses obscure his gaze.

“Kaneki,” she pleads.

 _“Touka-chan,”_ the mouths whine.

She leans up to kiss his mouth. Their lips meet, shuddering, and the mouths work against her, nibbling one nipple and lapping another, clinching her breasts together, suckling her fingers, straining and then tearing her underwear. Kaneki’s tongue tastes her fervently, like he is trying even now to find her, and she moans and spreads herself further as his tongues gather in pairs against her. Two lavish her clit with alternating licks at either side — two more part her folds, holding them wide and slicking back and forth — and then, one other, one other long tongue presses its fluttery hot breadth against her slit and then slides away, to be replaced with the rinkaku itself posing, tentatively.

Her breath falters, and so does Kaneki’s motion; but Touka’s arms wrap, bringing his body close to hers, and after a moment’s stiffness he bows his head against the hollow of her throat, and helps her leg up around his waist, and embraces her, and eases in, in, in.

Her arms tighten as he gets deeper, fingers tangling and yanking his hair as he finally meets the pit of her. But the instant he bottoms out, he withdraws — and her helpless sputter unravels even further as he penetrates again, faster, faster.

_“Tou —”_

_“— ka-chan —”_

_“Tou —”_

_“— ka —”_

_“Tou-ka, Tou-ka, Tou-ka —”_

After so long without him, to be surrounded outside and in is overwhelming, and still not enough. She grasps, pleads, bucks her hips. Her tailbone is starting to ache from the pressure of his thrusting her into the wall, but when her climax leaves her throat raw she still finds her limbs tangled up with him hungrily, and his tongues swallow up her wetness and urge more of it. Inside her, the rinkaku buckling underneath her spasms regains its firmness, and thrusts again, this time unfolding to taste her from within.

Thunder roars — maybe — though all she hears are his whispers, roaring in her ears. The wind shifts and peppers rain across their bodies, but all she feels is heat, heat, heat.

Later, in the mirror, Touka would try to parse the muddle of these dreams to figure out how it’s possible that those mouths left so many marks all over her. She would wear a scarf and go out to buy a high-collared blouse to obscure the indulgent hues trailing up and down her throat.

For now, she tilts Kaneki’s face up to kiss the rain from it. Suddenly, she tastes salt.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
